Breathe
by paxcorpus
Summary: "I don't have time to draw breath when you're around." (ONE-SHOT) [Brice LeBeau x Jack Archer]


_What is this exactly?_

No dictionary can define it.

Nobody could decipher this, let alone theorize this. Jack Archer, for his years unravelling clue after clue keenly in his profession, wades in the quicksands of mental matter when it come to the likes of Brice LeBeau.

Divided as they were united in differences and disagreements, something unspoken surfaces in mutual understanding.

After the grand prologue of misunderstandings, curtain veiling all calculations and motives within two seemingly different men, separated by continents and a two year age gap. Perhaps not as severe as it could be, yet a lot could unfold in a few extra years of existence.

 _Who knows what life can throw at you, for better or worse._

"As long as you remember to draw breath," Brice sardonically raises brows at Jack during an impromptu talk by twilight hours, cigarette poised in an unwavering grip, "...zen you'll be fine."

"You know," Jack plunges hands deep in pockets, as if searching for the right words in the fathoms of fabric, "I don't have time to draw breath when you're around."

"Pourquoi?"

"Mainly 'cause you sometimes don't shut up."

Such quips prompt mutual laughter, sarcastic comments dipped in fond affection the language they exchange, often followed by a chance to breathe.

Smiles trade, warm and sincere.

Jack fidgets pensively with his Rolex, pondering all that life throws at him. The paradoxical pendulum swinging along with thoughts, as well as a strange rapport that grew from soil, a creeping dread bubbles in the foreground. Something unknown and foreboding.

 _Dread. I felt it around you._

 _Lost. Lost in you._

A map without destination nor markings, lost in a maze of a meeting of minds, collapsing like unsteady structure. Some of the worst elements of mankind brim inside the man next to him, the realms of arrogance and aloofness, supposedly uncaring and self-serving.

This man having the nerve to catch Jack in his most fragile angle, twisting it into one of his games and forced him to succumb. A chain dangling to make his head spin and his soul sleepy, brown eyes agreeable. Each touch felt right when wrong.

How far was too far?

But Brice had said it best.

As long as he remembers to breathe.

"Jacque," he breaks the silence after taking a long drag, "If you look any harder at moi, I may start getting ideas."

"Sorry, I spaced out."

"Just breathe for goodness sake Jacque, relax." Cigarette smoke obscures features in film noir finesse, eyes alight with deep thought as the smoke screen does little to diminish his keen sense of observation. Jack merely glances though it with a sheepish grin.

"I'm just thinking too much. Heh, that's kinda funny coming from me, huh?"

"Funny?" Brice repeats, puzzled.

"Yeah," Jack confirms, "A lotta people would make those jokes by now. Me needing to read more or learn something."

The Frenchman cottons on with an irritated tut, "Allez, you are always learning. We all are. We never stop learning, not even when we get old. In fact, I mean we know nothing at all!"

Jack's expression sinks into less than impressed territory, nonplussed as arms fold. "That's comforting. Is it supposed to be comforting?"

"Oui. You are not stupid Jacque, believe me."

 _You have a funny way of comforting._

Fire but cold. That was one way to describe Brice, albeit not remotely satisfactory in description. That was hardly his forte after all, rarely knowing how to say it. Intrigue steels Brice, slicking back dark blonde strands mid-puff without a care in the world.

A free palm sweeps through Jack's quiff, spluttering coughs to one side a delightful soundtrack for ears when stubbing the reminder of his cigarette against an errant ashtray.

"Nice."

"Desolé."

"Don't forget to breathe," Jack mocks before being silenced by a tip of his chin, forcing light eyes to watch his own wolfish smirk, soon applying it to Jack's seemingly unwilling lips.

Surrender lures lustful machinations into motion, charms and trickery when kisses fail to break. Audible smooching rings in ears, neither flinching away from close contact.

Coming up for air proves reluctant, the urge to pour words out suddenly overwhelming. "Je vous aime beaucoup." The statement bathes sultry waters, mesmerizing magic transferred from tongue to ear, said organ tracing under a lobe.

"I-I don't speak...Fransay." Jack breathlessly informs his lover, bewitched into submission. "I mean Francie."

"Aw don't worry," Brice kisses his cheek fiercely, craning closer to a listening ear, "I'll have you speaking in tongues soon enough Jacque Archer." The American agent barely has a moment to react, any reaction stolen by heavier kisses yet arms reply in this heated embrace and exhales as if going underwater.

Yet again a victim of pleasure.

Jack finds it hard to breathe.


End file.
